


Kitchen Shenanigans

by Aspidities



Series: Korrasami Week 2017 [5]
Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Food, Kitchen Sex, Modern AU, Morning Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-22
Updated: 2017-09-22
Packaged: 2019-01-04 04:16:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12161361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aspidities/pseuds/Aspidities
Summary: Day 5; Kitchen Shenanigans for Korrasami Week 2017Asami makes Korra an early morning breakfast post first-time saying 'I love you'.





	Kitchen Shenanigans

**Author's Note:**

> Hey folks! Getting close to the end of Korrasami Week so I'm racing to catch up. ;P
> 
> First foray into this style of POV, and I like it. Lemme know what you think, and happy Day 5! Get cooking <3

It’s 4am and you find yourself coring green apples with a penknife, parting the white flesh from its insides as Asami heats butter in a pan, wearing only one of your mis-buttoned flannel shirts, which ghosts over the edge of her gorgeous ass, barely covering it. She’s humming, softly, and the tuneless noise is the most beautiful sound you’ll ever hear, you know it. You could hear Pavarotti, back from the dead and belting ‘Nessun Dorma’, and he still wouldn’t hold a candle the the pitter patter of her bare feet, the sizzle of the butter, the rise and fall of her sweet voice.

There is a magic quality to this night, where you’ve stayed up well past midnight, completely entangled, speaking of unspoken things and saying words that neither of you thought to hear. When your stomach rumbled, Asami had wiggled playfully from your grasp and slipped the closest shirt over her head, promising to make ‘something sweet’ if you did a little prep work.

All good things, you are finding out tonight, require a little prep work.

You slice the apples into thin pieces, methodically, watching as Asami takes one from your fingers, warm with slick butter, and smiles at you as she pops it into her mouth, crunching. ‘Mmm…’ she moans, and the sound makes you think of the newness of your pleasure together, the way you love to make her feel good. ‘These will be perfect,’ she tells you, dark green eyes meeting yours over the apple slice. ‘They’re not too sweet.’

‘Don’t you want them sweet?’ You tease, and wrap your arms possessively around her waist, watching over her shoulder as she tilts the cutting board to slide your work into the pan, moving her ass back against you. You can tell she’s thrilling to your touch the way that you thrill to touch her; she’s happy and you’re _so_ happy to make her happy that you wonder deliriously why it took you three years to do it. The apple slices sizzle, skinless and raw, into the butter, and their helpless sauté reminds you of sinking inside of her; the steam heat of it all, her helpless bird cries, the wet warmth that clung to you… You’re not sure if you’re ever going to be able to think of anything else for the rest of your life.

‘A little sharpness is what you need,’ Asami tells you, her fingers guiding the wooden spoon around in mesmerizing circles. ‘Too much sweetness is cloying.’

You absorb this little piece of information for what it is; a hint at deeper things, like the flash of gold in a koi pond before the fish slips below the murk of the water hyacinth. You remind yourself of the rake of her nails on your back as you made her come, the pang of her teeth sinking into your shoulder while her fingers danced their wicked tango inside you. The sweetness was sharper then, edged with clarity, and you realize, of course, she’s right. She’s generally right.

She’s standing over the pan, pensively watching the butter bubble and froth, scraping it from the sides, and you realize you’ve never loved the furrow in someone else’s brow as much as you do hers. She waits until the apples are softened, loosened under her prodding with the spoon, and lifts each one, dripping with gold, onto the paper-towel lined plate. She pats them dry, as lovingly as she stroked your pussy after your orgasm had drained your entire existence out of you, and arranges a fan of them onto another plan.

“Final touch.” She confides in you, and her smile is crooked, more confident than you’ve seen it in years. She sprinkles a blend of cinnamon and sugar lightly over the delicate circle of apple blades, and the dusting perfectly falls on the center of each slice. Everything she does has artistry and precision; sometimes deadly, sometimes heartbreakingly gentle, as it is now. You are falling so hard in love with her that you’re surprised your cheek hasn’t thudded to the ground by now. She knows, of course, but as she lifts a perfect, steaming slice to your lips, you murmur ‘I love you’ into the fruit as it slides between your teeth.

She smiles, and its full, so full it spreads her whole face into a sunrise beyond what nature could ever hope to accomplish. “I still can’t believe you feel the same way.” She whispers to you, laying a kiss on your neck, and that aches inside you so painfully, because she should believe it, she should know that you don’t ever deserve her, but you will do whatever you can for her. Hold the whole world on your shoulders, master the elements, whatever you can. For _her_.

There’s no way you could ever express that adequately, so you push the plate to one side on the table, and you press into her; loving how tall she is, loving how you can keen right into the center of her like the rudder on a ship and guide her hips up onto the marble counter, seating her like the queen she is above you. You step to kiss her, body moving close between her legs, and they are parting so joyously for you, so welcoming that you want to weep. But instead, you grope for a second apple slice and feed it to her, gasping as she nips and licks your fingers instead of the pale flesh, and your other hand is roaming her body, demandingly flicking the buttons of your own shirt open to expose her perfect breasts. It’s been too long since you’ve touched them (only minutes at most, but still…) and you fall prey to your impulses, cupping the soft, high mounds that just perfectly fill your hands, no flesh spilling forth. You know she prefers your more generous frame, your demonstrative curves, but her body is heaven to you, every sculpted inch. Her nipples are so responsive to your touch that it makes you sigh, leaning your forehead down to brush your lips against them as she curls closer to you, hands digging into the countertop edge.

‘Korra…’ she rasps, and your own name is the most arousing thing you’ve ever heard, dripping from her butter-smeared lips like that. You take her nipple into your mouth, biting, sucking, as she repeats it, pleading with you, but you’re a king, and you’re feasting. You push another apple between her lips and she just holds it there, between her teeth like a prayer, just sinking into the white flesh, and you do the same, parting her lower lips with your buttery fingers, blending with her slick wetness that still coats her, evidence of how hard you’ve made her come, and how many blissful, breaking times you have yet to do so.

You could, should be gentle, but you aren’t, and as you selfishly open her for your touch, she moans deep and appreciatively, and the apple slice falls between your bodies to the floor, abandoned. Going inside is still too much, always too much, but you groan with her and push your lips together again, slipping your tongue into her sighing mouth as you curl inside her body. You can feel her heartbeat in her slick, pulsing heat of her sex, the tremor of her legs beside your wrist as she clenches, tilting her hips to force you deeper. She feels so good, so so good. You never imagined what it would be like to be _inside_ someone, let alone with such a sensory organ as your questing digits. It’s beyond sex, it’s beyond thought or time. It’s connecting you to her, your flesh calling to hers.

She throws her head back, and her hair falls back in a shadow, dark like the other side of the moon. She’s wild, a feral thing you’ve temporarily tamed and you have no idea how to collar her but you’re getting the idea as you roll your thumb around her clit, teasing circles to get close to what she wants, to build the foundation. The grasping, pulling channel of her body encourages you to do it, to push her over the edge, and you give in, letting those circles tighten until you’re battering her sensitive little button with your thumb as your fingers straighten to pound inside of her. You’ve learned what it means when she swells around you, when she arches and her body bucks crazily: keep the pace, keep going, hold her down through it so she can’t escape the pleasure.

Too late, you realize the pan is still dangerously within reach of her suddenly flailing hand, and the burner is still on, and the pan goes flying as her fist lands on the handle, scattering still sizzling oil over both of your bodies in an arc as it clatters to the floor, spraying the kitchen with browned butter and apple slices. The butter stings your skin but if anything, it enhances the sensations, and Asami seems to agree, screaming your name like an aria, like the Queen of the Night admonishing Pamina to kill Sarastro in soprano piping, and you’ve never hear a more lovely opera. You’d let her drive the knife right through you, let her burn you in hot oil, let her teeth sink into you just as she did the apples. She is completion and emptiness, she is desolation and creation, she is a fire and the quenching, soothing rain.

As her come drenches your wrist and her scream fades into a whimpering wail, you thank every Spirit and God of small or great things that you can name, and your prayers have never been as fervent, nor as devoted. She is your undoing and your strength, and the faith in her body, in her golden-lion-leaping soul is all you need to carry yourself, to carry the responsibilities you own, to carry the weight of your heavy life. Her legs shake and you drop to your knees, removing your fingers so she can ride out her orgasm on the soothing flat of your tongue, and the slickness of it dipping inside her. She moans again, low and soft, and you know she’s coming again, beautifully slow, like honey dripping into your mouth.

The morning is grey, and still, and the trees below her apartment in its brick old building have yet to come alive with the birdsong, but Asami’s cries are enough to make the dawn begin to rise, creamy rose blending with heather as it melts onto the street. You rest your cheek on her thigh, almost teary-eyed for reasons you could never name or categorize or attempt to control, and she threads her fingers lovingly through your hair. The kitchen is a mess, covered in burn marks and butter splatters, and the pan is probably leaving a scorch on the tile, but you don’t care.

‘I love you,’ you say again, and again, you can feel her smile.

 


End file.
